


Show don't tell

by CamilleDuDemon



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Books, Canon Compliant, Eskel deserves nice things, Eskel is a big book nerd, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gifts, Lambert has Feelings, Lambert's got questionable morals, Libraries, M/M, Theft, Unconditional Love, wintering at Kaer Morhen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:20:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27730666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamilleDuDemon/pseuds/CamilleDuDemon
Summary: "A compendium on Southern Poetry and late Elvish sonnets".Eskel spends the whole fucking winter looking for that tome in any single room of the keep, even those that haven't been unlocked in ages - or don't have a door anymore, because it has been eaten up by bugs a long, long time ago.At first, Lambert thinks that his frantic searching is directed towards some form of greater good - Eskel has always been a selfless bastard, after all - but no, one rainy afternoon he dares to ask and he finds out the whole fuss is about poetry. Which, frankly, has him burst out laughing so hard he ends up thinking that his guts will spill on the dusty floor alongside a couple of his ribs.Eskel, on the contrary, doesn't laugh.
Relationships: Eskel/Lambert (The Witcher)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 54





	Show don't tell

"A compendium on Southern Poetry and late Elvish sonnets".

Eskel spends the whole fucking winter looking for that tome in any single room of the keep, even those that haven't been unlocked in ages - or don't have a door anymore, because it has been eaten up by bugs a long, long time ago.

At first, Lambert thinks that his frantic searching is directed towards some form of greater good - Eskel has always been a selfless bastard, after all - but no, one rainy afternoon he dares to ask and he finds out the whole fuss is about  _ poetry _ . Which, frankly, has him burst out laughing so hard he ends up thinking that his guts will spill on the dusty floor alongside a couple of his ribs.

Eskel, on the contrary, doesn't laugh.

"Can you try not to be a dick, for once? Help me, asshole. I'm sure I've seen it somewhere around here. It's a bulky thing, green cover, capitals in gold and bronze. Shouldn't be this fucking hard to find!"

Lambert can tell that he's frustrated - normally, Eskel wouldn’t lash out like that, especially not against him, not even when he’s done something to deserve it - so he just huffs in annoyance and helps him wreak havoc within the umpteenth pile of books in the castle. The room is some kind of a service chamber, with rotten wooden racks mounted on the walls. He doesn't remember having ever seen it, during his training years. Maybe a master used to sleep there, or a druid. Nothing of the previous inhabitant of the room has left, by the way, so Lambert doesn't dwell on the thought too much. 

They look for the book until Vesemir calls them downstairs for chores, chores that Lambert  _ reluctantly  _ agrees on helping with, and when they're back at it the following day Geralt has joined the searching party, diligently emptying shelf after shelf for Eskel's stupid poetry book.

Needless to say that all the searching is utterly fruitless. Eskel grows frustrated. Sad, even. Lambert can't understand why he's so upset about the loss of a single book; there are hundreds of tomes in Kaer Morhen, the vast majority of which far more interesting than a thing about ancient, dull sonnets written by people who have long turned into dust.

However, he doesn't like seeing Eskel sad. He'd never admit it, but it breaks his heart to look at his beautiful face and find it twisted in a grimace, lips strictly pursed into a thin, white line, and a deep wrinkle crumpling his brow.

He tries to cheer him up with an ungodly amount of sex, then. He doesn't care if it's daytime or nighttime, of they've got chores to attend to, if they've got to hunt or eat or sleep, he teases Eskel whenever he can - even when it isn't appropriate at all - and takes care for him the best way he can come up with. Gentle sex, rough fucking, a simple wank or a blowjob, whatever really, whatever, just to - as the old saying goes -  _ "turn his frown upside down". _ And he manages, partly. 

_ Yet. _

So, sometime during one of those nights in which they have at least three rounds of sex and roughly one hour of sleep and the wind rages outside and whips at the sturdy walls of Kaer Morhen, Lambert simply brings up the subject, as bluntly as ever.

"What's so special in that book?", he asks, "Poetry is lame. I really don't get why you like it that much."

Eskel snorts under him, gently pushing Lambert aside and chuckling at his annoyed huff as he sets comfortably against his shoulder.

"Since when have you become so heavy? You were crushing me."

Lambert shoots him an indignant glance.

"Oh, excuse me if I exercise regularly, dickhead. Unlike some, I can't live with my nose stuck between the pages of a book. Back to the topic -- what's so special about this one in particular? It's just -- poetry."

No matter how hard he tries, Lambert can't wrap his head around the idea. Eskel has tried objecting that he too, in fact, fancies a lot going to the plays, whenever he's in a good mood enough to tolerate cities like Novigrad, Oxenfurt, Cidaris or Cintra, and plays are usually in verses. Still, Lambert has counter-objected that plays, at least, don't bore the shit outta him, because there's action, there's passion, and the thespians are usually ready to improvise something if the audience starts to yawn and scratch at their fat asses for the tedium.

Eskel wraps his ridiculously muscular arm around Lambert's shoulders, pulling him in a tight knot of limbs and warmth, dragging their foreheads together. They can still smell the sharp tang of alcohol in each other's breath. In the heat of the moment, Lambert forgets entirely about his prickly facade and places a small kiss on the tip of Eskel's nose.

"What's with that book, Eskel?"

His voice is now soft, languid. Eskel shrugs, stroking his back with his skilled fingertips, and then a tiny blow escapes his lips.

"It's got a -- uh. Emotional value, that's it. It was the first book I got my hands on when Vesemir was teaching me and Geralt how to read. And it was very nice, with double parallel text, Common and Elder Speech. I've learned the Elder Speech on that book, all by myself."

There's a slight hint of pride in his voice as he's saying that. Lambert likes it when Eskel takes pride in his own deeds. Fucking hell, he deserves it. Still -- the book.

_ A compendium on Southern Poetry and Late Elvish sonnets. _

"When was the last time you've seen it? Your -- boring book, I mean. Where was it?"

Eskel blows softly, and the blow quickly turns into a chaste kiss on Lambert's cheekbone.

"Can't say. Can't recall, sorry. It's been -- I don't even remember if you had already been brought to the keep, the last time I saw it. But I was sure it was still around, pretty foolish of me, uh? It might have been destroyed during the attack, now that I think about it."

"Perhaps."

"Shit, I should have thought about it sooner. I'm so sorry I've wasted your time, Lambert. And Geralt's."

"You better be. I've never inhaled so much dust, my throat still feels sore, you asshole."

Lambert's attempt at humor doesn't lighten Eskel's spirit, though. He's still sort of sad, a little broken, lost in his own thoughts. 

They don't have a third - or is it fourth? Lambert can't tell - round, that night, and in the morning Eskel stops bragging about his precious book altogether.

When they are about to part in spring, though, the subject pops up again.

It's a quiet, sunny, yet still chilly morning. All the wolves have warmed up their bones with training and now Geralt and Vesemir are already busy fixing the leaking roof of the stables, ruined by the ungodly amount of rain it has fallen at the end of winter, right after Imbolc.

Lambert asks "Are you going to look for another copy of your precious book while you're out on the Path?" out of genuine curiosity. Even a bit of concern too, given how much Eskel values that book. Eskel's answer, though, comes totally unexpected.

"Another copy? Oh, Lambert, I wish I could, but that book is a rarity for collectors, I'm not sure there are more than a dozen copies still existing on the Continent!"

It's a bucket of cold water in Lambert's face. Contrary to what most of the people tend to believe, he's far from being a selfish bastard. That's why the night before leaving the keep he gathers all the coins he can find, regardless of their origin. He mixes up florens with crowns, orens and tiny little lintars, shining, coppery and insignificant between the gold and the silver. He snatches some dimeritium too, because it's sold at the highest rates nowadays, and gathers up some easily transported oddities that he plans to sell on his way.

When he and Eskel part in a village at the foot of the mountains, Lambert is set up on a mission: finding the goddamn book by the end of fall, whatever it takes.

Eskel deserves nice things, after all, what's wrong with providing him with some?

***

"Watcha looking for, kid?"

The bookseller is old and crumpled, and he heavily leans on a tall crutch when he walks --  _ crawls  _ would be a better definition. 

It's all right that he doesn't see that it's a witcher that has approached his itinerant cart, it's safer this way. Still, it makes Lambert uncomfortable to be called a kid when he's more than fifty summers old. But yet, what's wrong in humoring an old man who's already got a foot in his grave?

"Hello, Gramps. I'm looking for an oddly specific book, but your cart is so loaded I'm afraid I'd have to knock it over if I am to find it on my own."

The old man laughs, then coughs so hard Lambert thinks he's going to break his spine in two. He doesn't. He takes a deep drag from his nicely carved pipe and starts rummaging affectionately through his books.

"That I see, kid. Tell me what you're looking for. If I can be of some assistance, then I'm listening."

"A compendium on Southern Poetry and Late Elvish Sonnets. Ever heard about it? You've got a copy?"

The crumpled bookseller runs his hand over the rough stubble that coats his cheeks and chin, then he mutters something under his breath, shaking his head.

"I'm afraid I was still a boy myself when I saw the last copy with my own eyes. I was -- this tall" he says, his hand waving in the still chilly spring air almost as high as his hip. Which isn't high at all, since the man is so hunched. Lambert sighs heavily. A spectacular fiasco.

"Yeah, yeah. Thanks Gramps. You know a place nearby where I can have some decent ale?"

There's still plenty of time, Lambert knows it. Spring is young, and summer will be long and tedious. He's written down a list of cities, libraries and villages where he could look for the antique book Eskel loves so much, finding the itinerant bookseller was just a lucky break. He's headed for Cidaris, now, with its library so full of tomes one could spend a lifetime inside without needing to read the same book twice. He has even considered traveling past the Jaruga, towards Ebbing or Nazair, in case that the book is really unobtainable in the Northern Realms.

Gramps waves his hand at him, sending him off to a village where, to quote him,  _ ale is so sweet it tastes better than mead. _ Lambert finds it very, very hard to believe, but he spurs his horse down the desert highway nonetheless.

***

Cidaris bursts with art and music. Wherever Lambert turns the eye, his gaze meets frescoed palaces, poets and rhymesters reciting their verses out loud for the little crowds clustered around them, troubadours that sing before the doors of taverns, inns and said frescoed palaces until someone doesn't chase them out or offers them a semi-permanent job.

He listens to a couple of songs before getting bored and head towards the booksellers district, trying to avoid sneering at people who look at him funny because of the many cuts and bruises he's sporting. Thing is, he needs to work in order to survive, and a witcher's job is a most violent one. He's been tossed through a wall by an angry katakan, hence the bruises and the healing cuts on his face, neck and hands. The angry fucker had made its lair out of a manor that was under renovation, killing off part of the workshop that was working on the fixtures, thus scaring all the artisans and workers away. The noble asshole who owns the manor has paid Lambert handsomely to get rid of the problem and now, with his pockets full, he can go on without another shitty contract for at least two weeks -- provided that innkeepers doesn't charge him too much for a warm meal and a bath, that is.

The booksellers district isn't much more than a square closed on three sides by a beautiful, yet decadent, frescoed loggia. The shops are all open, displaying any kind of books, from rarities to common books one could find everywhere. Lambert takes stock of everything he sees, spending an ungodly amount of time in every single shop, looking for a goddamn copy of the Compendium. Two booksellers openly laugh in his face when he asks for the Compendium, one doesn't even know what Lambert's talking about and another drives him out of his shop unceremoniously, stating that he does not want  _ "a filthy mutant"  _ in his respectable parlor.

Another spectacular fiasco.

However, he does buy something for Eskel anyway, because fuck it, he deserves nice things, a shitload of nice things. He buys him a fine leather bound poetry book from a bookselling girl with a nice, small shop, that offers him a cup of mead as they speak. The temperatures are now rising, spring is blooming all around. When Lambert leaves the shop and gets back into the square he gets hit right in the face by the seemingly so premature warmth and while he's on his way to the praised library he has already gotten rid of his gambeson and riding gloves. Even carrying his swords feels like torture, in this heat. 

When he enters the magnificent and imposing building hosting the great library and an antique sculpture collection, Lambert looks like a disgraced pilgrim on his way to find salvation in Melitele's sanctuary. All the high-collared librarians in their silky blue tunics wince in disgust at the sight of a disheveled witcher at their countertop, looking for a book that isn't about monsters and other foul bestialities.

After a polite, yet completely unwilling on both sides, exchange of formalities, Lambert doesn't waste his time and immediately asks for a copy of the Compendium...and a scribe.

Needless to say that the  _ greatest library in the Northern Realms _ doesn't own any copy of the book, nor scribes whatsoever.

"Staff reductions", says a librarian with oval spectacles and the face of someone who doesn't get enough sleep on a daily basis.

Lambert fumes. He considers axii-ing everyone to headbutt the marble pilasters until their faces turn pulpy and bloody, but then he thinks about Eskel, and Eskel would never. He grunts and walks away without saying goodbye.

***

"You're pretty far from home, Wolf, aren't you?"

Lambert would recognize this voice, so rumbling and pleasant to the ear, everywhere. He curls his lips in a lopsided smile and bows his head courtly, raising his tankard of piss-warm ale to the man standing in front of him.

"Lazare. You're pretty far from home yourself, Griffin."

The Griffin witcher scoffs, taking the seat Lambert's offering and asking a maid for a tankard of beer for himself.

"So, what are you doing in Ebbing? Did your brother finally convince you that the pay is better in the South?"

Lambert feels his heart leap in his throat at the mention of Eskel. He tries to wave the weird mixture of longing and jealousy away before Lazare notices it. Too late, though. He knows Lazare enough to be aware of the fact that he relies mostly on his nose, especially since a Slyzard has almost taken an eye away from him, and he hides his face behind his tankard as the Griffin witcher gives him a quirked eyebrow.

"No, it wasn't Eskel's doing. I've got -- business here. Personal matters."

"Mhmh. So your personal matters don't involve a couple of archgriffins that have nested not far from here, right?"

"Not in the slightest, no. I'm not here to steal jobs. I've already done my part, taking down a basilisk and some nekkers on my way here", Lambert answers, raising both of his hands in an universal gesture of innocence. Lazare nods, apparently satisfied, and they spend the rest of the evening sharing stories and playing Gwent until they're both too drunk and exhausted and call it a night.

They part as soon as morning comes, both sporting a terrible headache and swearing they'll never drink themselves stupid again. Lambert already knows he'll break his oath in two days, three at most, yet one must always take pride in their goodwill.

When he spurs his horse forward, he's headed for the Big City, hoping that the libraries and bookshops of the South still have the goddamn Compendium in stock, hopefully for a reasonable price too.

He roams around for weeks, all in vain. Time's racing towards him and he considers riding further South, but he's not sure he'll make it back home before the early snows in Kaedwen block all the mountain passes. Angry, frustrated and miserable, he even snaps at a bookseller for telling him the hard, cold truth: the Compendium is unobtainable, at least with legal means, and a scribe would cost too much to be hired to make a copy of it. Not to mention that a scribe's work is  _ slow _ , a work of patience and care, and Lambert can't afford that. 

Lambert calls the poor bookseller unrepeatable names and damages the door of his shop as he slams it behind his back.

***

The ride back home is long and tedious. He takes up some shitty contracts while he's at it, drowners mostly, nekkers, endregas. He doesn't stop in Toussaint, he doesn't feel like celebrating the beginning of the grape-harvest this year. He rides straight through the vast kingdoms, fall biting at his ankles with its rigid temperatures and the frequent downpours, making him even more angry and prickly than ever. He even manages to scare away for good a group of children that insist on petting his mare and call her Myrtle. He uses Axii more often than not; to find an affordable room in an inn, for free drinks and meals, to punish someone who has merely dared to look at him funny.

He shouldn't. He's got some savings and stuff to sell, money is not a problem this year, yet spite provokes him to behave like a bratty kid.

Late at night, he retrieves the list from his pack - now tattered and almost unreadable because of all the roaming - and spends most of his time in bed eyeing at the last name on the parchment: Oxenfurt.

Some say that if you can't find a specific book in Oxenfurt, you can't find it anywhere. Lambert's hopes, though, have reduced to a flicker in the past weeks.

He doesn't sleep. He meditates for a couple of hours before riding to the harbor and getting on the first ferry to Oxenfurt and Novigrad that doesn't reek like digested cabbage and baby vomit and piss.

Once he's walked through the gates - unlike Novigrad, Oxenfurt is kind of quiet this time of the year, so Lambert can tolerate a brief stay - Lambert stops at the Alchemy Inn, where his good old friend Stjepan - innkeeper and former Gwent champion - greets him with unnecessary pomp and declares that he'll drink for free his whole stay. He gladly accepts the offer and starts with a tankard of beer and a warm meal of sausages, eggs and sunflower bread coated with finely chopped herbs and pepper. He rents a room for the night because fuck it, why not. Besides, he's not sure he can visit all the libraries and bookshops in the goddamn city in a single day. Not to mention the many copy stores - both legal and illegal - scattered around within the city walls.

"So, what brings you to our wonderful city? Any monster in the sewers, perhaps? We had an infestation, a couple of years ago. Can't remember who dealt with it, though. Not a Wolf for sure, I'd remember in that case!"

Lambert snorts, amused, and gobbles down half of a sausage. Stjepan takes a seat on the opposite bench with an exaggerated sigh and casts a glance to his wife, now busy behind the counter.

"A book", he states, and for a moment Stjepan looks utterly dumbfounded.

"A what?"

"A book", he repeats, with his mouth empty this time. The innkeeper glares at him from under his knitted brows, then he mutters "Of course it's a book why should someone come to Oxenfurt if not for the sake of knowledge", to which Lambert replies with a nod.

"Never mistook you for the reading type…"

Lambert snorts again.

"Since when have you become so nosy, Stjepan?"

"Aye, aye, I get it, no questions. Perhaps we can play some Gwent, old friend? I haven't found a worthy opponent in ages, you know?"

Lambert agrees to one round only, but soon enough they start playing seriously and a small crowd gathers around their table to place bets and show support to this or that contestant. After quite some rounds, Stjepan kicks Lambert's ass with putting him up by one point. He doesn't accept the coin they've placed on the table, though, and Lambert is more than thankful for that.

When he can finally leave the Alchemy Inn, it's already past noon, and a damp, chilly wind coming from the Pontar makes him shiver under his heavy gear. A teeny weeny fraction of his brain is literally begging for him to turn around and step back inside in the comforting warmth of the inn, but Lambert doesn't give in. He thinks about Eskel, he can literally picture his beautiful, slightly broken smile as he hand him his rare, godawful book neatly packaged, maybe even tied with a nice ribbon or some shit like that, and the thought alone is enough to put his legs into motion until he finds himself roaming near the University, students flocking all around like colorful birds heading south to winter away in a warmer place.

He shakes his head and enters one of the many courtyards from a small, hidden door carved directly into the walls. The fountains are still working, even though it's already fall, and some students sit around the marble basins with their noses buried deep in their books. 

Lambert walks down a paved path that cuts through geometrical flowerbeds in which the grass has been trimmed short and, relying on his own memory alone, he finds the opulent building that hosts one of the most renowned libraries on the Continent. Tolling bells signal that it's time for the students to go back to their classes so, when Lambert enters the library, there's only a few students left inside besides the stiff, grumpy librarians. A dwarf grumbles behind a long, freshly waxed wooden counter, apparently trying to wrap his head around something that he's seeing in a book opened up before his buttony eyes.

Lambert leans against the counter, his arms crossed on his chest, and he waits. The dwarven librarian lets out a stream of almost inaudible profanities, both in his own language and in Common, and then he grunts "Aye, marginalia are absolutely valuable, right, but obscene drawings?! On a Civil Law book? I'll tell you, master witcher, these youngsters have no respect!", which makes Lambert chuckle under his breath.

The librarian glances at him, then, and nods in lieu of greeting him.

"Haven't seen your kind around for a while now master witcher. You looking for something in particular?"

"Yeah. Ancient poetry."

The dwarf seems taken aback by the witcher's statement, yet he starts stroking his beard thoughtfully, muttering as Lambert patiently waits for --  _ anything, really.  _

"Not much has left, I'm afraid", the odd librarian says after a while. "But if you tell me what you need, perhaps it's possible that we still own a copy. Many have been destroyed over the years."

Lambert nods, brows knitted and a stern look on his face. He doesn't care about the other books, as long as the one he's looking for is still there.

"A Compendium on Southern Poetry and Late Elvish Sonnets. Is it possible that a copy has survived here?"

The unlikely librarian stops stroking his beard for the tiniest fraction of a moment, then he's back at it, with even more vigor than before.

"Ah, you're after a rare book, master witcher. Should have been one left. Let me take a look. Have a seat while I check."

Lambert takes a seat at a long oak table that he shares with a medicine student, judging by the colors of his uniform. The medic-to-be stares at him wide eyed for a while before Lambert glares at him threateningly and he abruptly looks away.

Time stretches indefinitely. He even manages to doze off for a bit while waiting.

"Master witcher?"

The whisper doesn't startle him. Lambert cracks his eyes open carefully, popping his sore joints like a lazy housecat. The dwarven librarian is looking at him with a smug smile hidden under his beard.

"Found it, master witcher" his voice is so low that even Lambert has to strain his ears to hear it. "They had already put it in the deposit, meaning that no one has asked for it in ages. It's still in good conditions, though, just mind the bindings and it'll be fine. I'll send it out for a rebinding as soon as you're done with your research, aye."

Now, here comes the hard part.

Lambert thanks him with a nod of his head, then he whispers back: "Is there anywhere more private where I can read it?"

The concealed smile on the librarian's lips widens.

"Of course there is, master witcher. Come on, follow me."

"Already going? Thought you were staying for a couple of days…"

Lambert waves his hand as Stjepan tosses away the rag with which he was waxing the counter. The strong smell of wax makes Lambert sick and he pinches the bridge of his nose to force himself not to use it.

"Found what I came for. It was surprisingly easy, I should have started from here instead of Cidaris."

Stjepan gives him a raised brow, but he doesn't say anything on that, knowing how prickly Lambert is.

"A'ight. One ale before you go, witcher? It's always nice to drink with an old friend."

Now, Lambert can agree to that. Taking a seat at the counter is enough for Stjepan to pick his best tankards and pour his finest ale. Lambert sighs. 

Mission accomplished.

Finally.

***

Of course it's Eskel who picks up his frozen bones from the stables, greeting him with a blanket and his own body warmth, breathing on his icy hands to reactivate blood circulation in his fingers.

Lambert's teeth chatter loudly and Eskel wraps him up in the blanket, then into his arms, stroking his back softly until he stops shuddering.

"There, there, the fire is already going, let's get you inside."

Lambert lets Eskel guide him gently to the door, and from there to the giant fireplace of the main hall. Some large furs are already spread on the freshly sweeped floor and next to the impromptu nest there's a half-read book. He sighs contentedly as soon as Eskel has him seated down properly and another blanket gets added on his shoulders.

"It's nice to see you", the scarred witcher says, placing a tender kiss on his temple. Still shivering, Lambert reaches for his hand and holds it against his chest for what it seems like an eternity.

He doesn't say anything about the gifts he has brought back for Eskel, not yet, he's too tired and cold to.

He dozes off, leaning on Eskel, sighing in his sleep with his face buried in the warm crook of his neck. When he wakes up, he's immediately able to pick up the strong scent of Vesemir's special stew, the hint of parsley and cabbage almost tuning down the sweet, juicy scent of the meat. The old man must be in a very good mood. Lambert hears him pace down the kitchen, pour some ale and even hum a tune under his breath.

He tries to reach for Eskel, straining his ears as he rubs at his sore eyes; some distant thudding noises. Maybe he's fixing something outside, or banging his head into the bedpost or whatever. 

Someone - probably Vesemir - has arranged his things next to a trunk on the opposite wall. Lambert drags his ass across the room and starts rummaging through his bags and pouches and whatnot until he finds the gifts he has brought for Eskel, both neatly wrapped into thin, clean cloths and stored at the bottom of a bag so that the many bumps of the road couldn’t spoil them.

_ After dinner. _ He's going to give Eskel his presents after dinner.

"Come give me a hand with the herbs, Lambert", calls Vesemir quietly from the kitchen. Lambert, though huffing vehemently, does what he's told. The old man is in a good mood: maybe they won't even bicker tonight…

***

"You smell like dirty dishes…"

Eskel huffs, faking annoyance, and he presses Lambert's back into his chest, placing a fleeting kiss on the back of his head.

"And you smell like someone that really needs a bath", he chuckles. Lambert sneers at his remark, but he gives in into the warm comfort of his broad chest nonetheless. There, comfortably nested in a pile of furs in front of the fire, Lambert can actually feel at home, somehow. 

Safe.

Cared for.

_ Loved. _

He sighs, leaning his head on Eskel's shoulder and closes his eyes.

"So, only small contracts this year, uh?", Eskel asks in a whisper. Lambert shrugs slightly.

"What can I say, I was tired of slaying griffins."

His answer elicits another small chuckle.

"Ah, yeah, I know the feeling. Who needs three hundred crowns anyway, am I right?"

"I had savings. Besides, I've sold some junk, got myself a nice sum from a couple of antique daggers I've snatched from an elven tomb near Vengerberg a while back."

"Eaten enough, then?"

"Mmmh. I've eaten."

"Good. You were all skin and bones three winters ago. Gave me quite the scare."

Lambert shakes his head. There's no need to dwell on that. Eskel knows better that being a witcher is risky, and starving is one of the risks that come with the profession.

Still.

He sighs. The nice, healthy warmth radiating from Eskel's body never fails to make him sleepy and sappy and many other things he personally loathes. Sentimental, even. He purses his lips into a thin line before pulling away reluctantly from his arms. There's no need in delaying anymore.

Eskel gives him a questioningly raised brow.

"Mh?"

"Got something for you", he declares, clearing his throat. He can't see Eskel's grateful smile because he's already trotting towards the trunk, but he knows by heart that it's there.

One last time, he checks the conditions of the books, testing the bindings and scrolling through the pages. Everything feels solid enough, almost new, and he's utterly satisfied when he gets back to the furry nest and sits cross-legged with his back to the fireplace before handing Eskel his gifts.

"Books? You got me books?"

"Course I did, you've got boring hobbies. Unwrap them, come on."

The first book gets welcomed by an appreciative hum. Eskel carefully examines the hard, studded cover and roams his calloused hands all around. He smells the book, its ink, the thin parchment, the sturdy bindings and when he puts it down with gentle care he looks like a happy kid rewarded for his irreproachable behavior.

"Thank you Lambert. I didn't think you --"

"Shut up. This was just a -- let's call it a side gift. Unwrap the other, you'll even like it better."

"Not only one gift, but a main gift and a side gift. I wonder what did I do to deserve such a blatant display of affection."

Lambert gave him a sort of a dirty look. If he hadn't been stripped from the possibility with the mutations, he would have blushed so hard Eskel could have thought his face was on fire.

"Less talking, more unwrapping."

Eskel smirks smugly, examining the sort of packet and smelling it carefully. He tilts his head, then, curious.

"Old parchment. Very old parchment. And old ink too, different types of ink. What now, you had a book restored for me twenty years ago, then forgot entirely about it?"

Lambert bares his teeth.

"I said-"

The other witcher gives him a defensive, yet amused, look.

"All right all right I'm unwrapping it, don't be so prickly."

Oh, how Eskel glows when he finally takes the cloth away and reveals the nice, sturdy cover beneath, recognizing it immediately. He tries to say something, but words keep tangling to his tongue, turning him into a stuttering mess.

"Lambert -- how -- where --", he finally says, amazed. Lambert makes a vague, non-committal gesture with his hand.

"Trust me, you don't want to know. Enjoy your lame poetry, old man. I know this isn't  _ your  _ copy and shit, but-"

When Eskel kisses him, it's passionate and full of gratitude and love and affection, so much it knocks out all of Lambert's breath and leaves him dizzy for a while.

"Thank you", Eskel whispers on his lips. Lambert prides himself in thinking that he's kissing him ravenously only to shut him up, but the truth is that he craves his praising, his unconditional affection, his pure, untamed  _ love _ . He'll do anything to fix his sad, broken, lopsided smile, even just for one day or maybe a couple of minutes.

_ Anything. _

Robbing Oxenfurt's library is, of course, part of  _ that _ anything.

But Eskel doesn't have to know, and Lambert doesn't care about letting him know. 

He wants to see him happy, that's it. Eskel deserves happiness. Eskel deserves nice things and flower crowns and shit tons of books and, fuck it, Lambert feels like an idiot for thinking such sappy things, but-

No, no buts. He shuts off his brain and moans into Eskel's mouth. The fire is still going. Geralt has yet to come back from the Path. Vesemir sleeps in another wing of the castle, somewhere secluded, private.

He smirks and whispers "What about a proper thank you, Eskel?" to which the other wolf answers by starting to unlace his shirt with a smug smirk plastered on his mouth.

“A proper thank you, eh?”

Lambert doesn’t reply. He captures Eskel’s mouth in his, moaning softly when his tongue meets his sharp teeth, his intents unmistakable.

Not that Eskel was expecting any answer, anyway...

  
  



End file.
